


The Five (More) Times Mycroft Took Care of Sherlock

by ViennaWarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, I'M SO BAD AT TAGS FORGIVE ME, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViennaWarren/pseuds/ViennaWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All brothers have a bond stronger than anything, but the Holmes brothers aren't so keen on displaying their affection for each other. Even so, Mycroft knows it's his duty to protect Sherlock; not just as his role of British government to a citizen, but his role as an older brother. </p><p>Sequel to "The Five Times Mycroft Took Care of Sherlock and the One Time He Didn't". I credit the basis for this story to Creative_Creature7572! Thank you, love (and I'm sorry it took so long to get this story up and running!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Freezing Disposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Creative_Creature7572](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creative_Creature7572/gifts).



Mycroft Holmes licked his dry lips and stared at his computer screen for another couple of minutes. The online article which he was reading proved so dreadfully boring, so much so that it was actually difficult to pay any attention to the author's purpose. A buzzing from his pants' pocket captured his attention immediately, and he was rather pleased to see it was a text from Gregory Lestrade. The content of the text, however, made him frown. 

 **You'd better get down here. It's your brother.** -GL

 _What's he doing this time?_ Mycroft inquired, anxious at what the response might be. 

 **I think he's ill. Shivering, shaking and all that. He's too involved in this case.** -GL

 _Where's John?_ -MH 

Mycroft knew if Sherlock was sick and working on a case, John must not be anywhere near him, otherwise Sherlock's arse would be planted in bed.

 **Took a day trip to see a patient in the countryside.** -GL

 _Where are you?_ -MH

An address was sent back nearly instantaneously and Mycroft called a car to be ready for him. 

* * *

Mycroft crossed his arms as a means of better conserving warmth. Snow fell heavily all around him, swirling and making its way into his hair, and the wind blew hard, biting at his pink cheeks. The white ice crunched under his feet and the elder Holmes cursed himself for wearing his dress shoes. 

Bright police tape jumped out at him, a complete contrast to the stark white that surrounded him. Greg jogged up to him, hands thrust in his pockets, breath coming out in little puffs. "He's around the corner."

He followed Lestrade around a red brick corner, turned, and came face-to-face with a corpse. Granted, the corpse wasn't fully exposed, but Mycroft saw a blue toe sticking out of the snow and the outline of what he guessed to be a hand with reaching fingers. His brother crouched, hands folded as if he were praying, and muttered to himself. Mycroft studied him carefully and indeed, he was shivering, little tremors in his shoulders. Mycroft realised he wasn't even wearing his coat. 

"Sherlock!" he said briskly, tapping his foot out of habit. Sherlock seemed not to hear him. "Don't you ignore me."

Sherlock's lips moved wordlessly. He was lost inside his mind palace. 

Mycroft crept closer to the frozen body nudged his brother, making him sway. "Sherlock!" 

"Mmm?"

"Look at me!"

Sherlock blinked slowly, as if he were in a dream. There were snowflakes in his eyelashes. 

"Why aren't you wearing your coat?"

"I f-forgot... it." His voice trembled from cold. 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, really looked. "My God, you've got hypothermia, haven't you?"

Sherlock didn't answer but continued to mentally assess the corpse in front of him.

"You know it, too." Mycroft added quietly. "Damn." He helped Sherlock to his feet. He was still shaking a good bit. "We're going to the hospital."

"N-no." Sherlock managed, through chattering teeth. "Home."

"Baker Street?" Mycroft laughed, incredulously. "You must be joking if you think I'm in any mood to bargain with you. I don't even know why we're discussing it."

Sherlock blinked, lost for a moment, before catching a sneeze in his hands. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're such an idiot, you know?" He wriggled out of his own coat and draped it over Sherlock's shaky shoulders, helping him walk towards the car. "Come on, we'll go home."

 


	2. Overprotective

"What have you done to yourself now?" Mycroft snapped, throwing open the door to his younger brother's flat. Although, it was doubtful Sherlock heard him because the deafening sound of a gun being fired over and over again drowned out everything else. 

Mycroft squinted at the sight in front of him. 

Sherlock was obviously angry. That much was obvious by the way he was pacing, nearly stomping across the floor. Except his right leg was dragging instead of stomping, which made Mycroft squint even harder. Every so often, Sherlock would cease dragging his leg, pause, raise the gun and fire into the dry wall, little bits of plaster sprinkling down onto the carpet like snow. 

As soon as Sherlock resumed pacing/dragging, Mycroft saw his opportunity. "Sherlock!"

The dark-headed young man turned, eye brow inquiring. "What?"

"Why haven't you been to the hospital yet?"

"Whatever do you mean?" 

So, Sherlock had decided to play stupid.

"You're ankle is clearly broken. Why you'd insist on dragging it along and wreaking havoc on the wall, I don't know."

"Hospitals bore me."

Mycroft scoffed, looking at him incredulously. "So it's not worth setting your ankle? Honestly?" 

Sherlock started to raise his weapon again, but stopped, quickly shifting his weight to the other leg. 

"For God's sake, sit down." Mycroft ordered and Sherlock reluctantly plopped into the nearest armchair. Mycroft gingerly pulled back Sherlock's trouser leg and examined the swollen ankle, spotted with dark blue and black bruises. "I'm not a doctor."

"I know that." Sherlock hissed air through his teeth when Mycroft's fingers brushed against the skin.

"Where's John off to?"

"Market." 

Mycroft took out his mobile. 

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing that John arrives home a little early from his shopping trip." Mycroft punched in John's number and waited. 

Sherlock groaned and sunk lower into the chair. 


	3. What Was in That?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are an emetophobe (ie: scared of v****ing) don't read! I used to be an emetophobe, but this is part of my "practising" to get over that fear! Here we go.

"What was _in_ that?!" Mycroft asked incredulously as Sherlock leaned over the toilet. 

"I don't even remember." He coughed a little and stood up shakily. "I'm going to brush my teeth." 

Mycroft nodded. "You do that."

* * *

When Sherlock padded into the room in a bathrobe and slippers, Mycroft did a great job not laughing. He did smile, but briefly. "Would you like some gingerale?"

"No." The young man gently curled up into the couch and flicked on the television. "I think I'm dying. Internally bleeding, perhaps."

"Food poisoning, Sherlock." Mycroft scoffed, bringing his brother some gingerale anyway. "You actually poisoned yourself with what? A potluck?"

"Doesn't matter." He groaned, rolling over on his side. God, it really wasn't like him to be so careless. Truth be told, he'd attempted to make sushi and it obviously hadn't gone so well. It tasted fine but--

Sherlock's stomach gave a sudden, painful twist and he was sprinting to the toilet, hand over his mouth. Mycroft followed him, standing outside. The door was closed for a reason. He trailed his fingers along the doorframe absent-mindedly. "Do you need help?"

He was answered by a cough and what sounded like dry heaving. "This is payback." Sherlock croaked. 

"For that one time you tried to cook for me?" Mycroft recalled that lonely holiday and how sick he'd been Christmas day.

There was a harsh, barking laugh. "And you vomited into Mother's poinsettia?"

"Yes." Mycroft chucked a bit. Their mother had been so forgiving under the circumstances. 

The door's lock clicked up and Sherlock's pale face appeared. "I'd like a cup of tea." he announced.

Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Would you now?" Then he remembered his role as a caretaker. Oops. He'd have to work on his bedside manner more often. "Oh, alright. Go ahead and go back to the drawing room. There's an afghan in the closet."

"I know there is, I live here!" Sherlock countered flippantly, trudging into the room. 

His older brother put the kettle on and waited to hear it scream, staring as Sherlock wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and closed his eyes.

 


	4. Back in Primary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind, Sherlock is about ten and Mycroft is 17.

"Hh'NN!" Sherlock felt the breath leave him as he stumbled backward. "It's funny how you'd result to violence when your reputation is threatened in such a--" Another quick pop to the nose silenced him. This time, he staggered backward and landed flat on the ground, the orange dust of the playground rising up in swirls around him.

"Shuddup, Einstein!" 

Sherlock knew Einstein was a very smart man yet the tone in which his classmate had used would suggest otherwise. He quickly swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and stood up. 

"I don't care how many times you hit me, Ronald! I'll still get better marks that you ever will!"

The blond sniffed. "No matter. You'll never be one of us." He looked around at his group of buddies. "Let's go." And they followed him like rats to the Pied Piper. 

Sherlock did not allow the tears to come, but rather located the lavatory. 

* * *

"What on Earth have you done to your shirt?" Mycroft pointed to the stains on the front of his little brother's button-down. He stared at his trousers, covered in dirt. Of course, now he new what had taken place.

"Nothing." he grumbled, but Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You have to stop getting in fights. It's most uncivilized."

Sherlock turned towards his brother, eyes blazing. "They get in fights with me, not the other way around!"

"Okay," Mycroft said, softer, "just try not to call any extra attention to yourself."

"'Kay." 

 


	5. Withdom Teeth

" _Mmth!_ "

"Nope, shhh, don't try to talk." Mycroft shushed his little brother who had cotton balls in his mouth. "You underwent surgery." Mycroft said slowly. "You're at your own flat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'b noth incompethent!"

"Shh shh!" Mycroft pushed him gently back down into his bed. 

"Ith hurths."

"I know." 

Sherlock was still very much so under the influence of pain medication, which seemed to be wearing off. 

"Just, erm, go to sleep." Mycroft flicked on the television. "See, it's Dr. Phil! That always seems to put your right to sleep, hmm?"

His younger brother mumbled something before pulling the blankets up to his chin. Mycroft smiled. 

"Right, well, I have a conference to attend and I'll try to stop by later."

"No!" Came the muffled reply, coupled with Sherlock's widened eyes. Mycroft sighed. Pain medication always made Sherlock overly sensitive. "Fine." Mycroft said. "I'll stay."

So Sherlock allowed his eyes to close as he listened to Dr. Phil's stupid voice getting farther and farther away. "You see, Shelia has been flirting with guys! At bars! Mark, are you okay with this? I mean, look at the video footage..."


	6. A Drunkard's Plight

"You've got to be kidding me." Mycroft snapped as he watched the cop unlock the cell. Sherlock winced as the sunlight hit him right in the eyes. 

"Mmm... Mycroft?" the younger man groaned, shakily standing up. 

"Let's go." 

Sherlock followed the clicking sound of his brother's dress shoes on the floor. 

* * *

Once they were comfortably seated in the car, Mycroft's rant began. 

"How absolutely idiotic of you!" he shouted. "Do you know how irritating it was for me to cancel a meeting to come bail you out of prison? Prison, Sherlock! For, what? What did the report say? Drunken, disorderly conduct? You got in a bar fight with a former boxer. Did you not notice his bulging biceps?"

"I did when he hit me." Sherlock mumbled, gingerly bringing a hand to his cheek. 

"Oh, well, that's your excuse? 'I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that he was an ex-boxer'? Sherlock, I'm very disappointed in you right now."

"You sound like Mother."

"No. Mother would be heartbroken had she been forced to pick up her son from jail. Can you imagine? You're extremely lucky I was able to come get you."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but contemplated the situation. If John had been there, maybe he wouldn't have gone out. But John was on holiday with Mary and Sherlock was alone, save for Mrs. Hudson, who insisted on making him dinner most nights. 

"Must I babysit you 24 hours a day?"

"No, Mycroft! Let me be." Sherlock spat, angrily turning towards the window. 

Mycroft sighed. "Look, here. I know John being away is difficult. Maybe you're not used to him being away or being married for that matter, I don't know." Sherlock was shooting him killer glares. "But what I do know is that you're better than this. Better than drinking yourself into oblivion and getting into fights at the pub. You'll have to help yourself, Sherlock. You're a grown man."

The car stopped outside of Sherlock's flat. "Tell Mrs. Hudson I said hello and don't make me do this again."

Sherlock slammed the car door, hard, but pondered what his brother had told him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading the story! It was a pleasure to write and I'm sure I'll be writing more projects as time permits. Again, thanks to all my supporters! ~VW


End file.
